Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane toward him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.
Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine, feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted across it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his thumb.
George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the length of the board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine mingling with the salt air.
Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he said thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”
The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.
William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things wrong.... I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s when things are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable—that I get grumpy, I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the house,” he added kindly.
“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out, don’t it?”
Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I feel. I cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to grass. Just set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind o’ light in my mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and returned to his whittling.
“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.
“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—” Uncle William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’ wondering if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”